


It Was You

by dwarvenkin



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Because what's new, F/M, Hawke & Varric Tethras Friendship, Hawke talks too much, Hinted Varric/Hawke, I guess you can say, Leandra's death, POV Varric Tethras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-25 23:16:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7551001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwarvenkin/pseuds/dwarvenkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So if you planned on never coming back, what made you decide to come tumbling through my window last night?” he asked, blocking out the fight downstairs.<br/>Shocked, Hawke turned towards him, and said, as though he should have known the answer all along, “Isn’t it obvious? It was you.”</p>
<p>Giselle Hawke fled the city after the death of her mother and has not returned in three months. Varric, in the mean time, found himself asking the Sabrae clan for a favor, and so when Hawke returns in a very Giselle style, she reveals to the dwarf what exactly she experienced in all that time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Was You

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! There are not as many triggers in this story as there are in my other ones, but here they are: PDA, swearing, and the mention of death. I hope enjoy! :)

Rain pounded on the roof of the Hanged Man, and from downstairs, silence followed a roar of thunder. There were less people in the pub now that the storm was approaching. If it had been any other day, drunken shouts, wild laughter, and maybe even the hiss of swords would be heard from downstairs. But today, silence accompanied the raging storm.

Every so often, Varric heard whispered conversation or a pair of boots making their way down the hall, but he figured Corff or Norah were clearing tables. Or maybe a stranger was looking for shelter and paid for one of the rooms. It wouldn’t be the first time.

When a flash of lightening shocked shadows against the floor and walls of Varric’s suite, he turned from his work, looked up at the windows, and frowned. The curtains bulged from the wind, threatening to slip out from under the weight of his volumes of _The History of Thedas_. One strong gust and his suite would turn into a pond. His books and scrolls left on his bookshelves would get water stains; his bowls and vases would fill with rain water. But as of now, the curtains or even the opened ink wells beneath his windows were the least of his concerns.

Not when Hawke had disappeared three months ago.

It had been right after the death of her mother. The mere thought of the mage who killed her still sent a stab of anger in the pit of the dwarf’s belly. Down in that sewer, Hawke had watched someone settle Leandra in the back of a wagon and wheel her away to be burned. Gamlin had placed the ashes on the mantle of Hawke’s fireplace back at the estate, but she doesn’t know that. Or maybe she does. Maybe she was somewhere in this city now, keeping an eye on her friends.

The day she had disappeared, Anders barged into the Hanged Man suite at first light, calling for Varric to wake up. The man had been frantic -- wild hair sticking out of place, hands trembling, spitting out words that had made no sense.

“Hawke gone... Hawke not... She’s gone! She’s not in bed or the estate! She’s _missing_ , Varric!”

The dwarf jumped out of bed, not much caring at the moment that all he had on were his under clothes. “Whoa there, Blondie. Breathe before you pass out. I don’t need to explain an unconscious mage to Edwina.”

Anders did as he was told, sat at Varric’s table, as Varric fetched a pitcher of water from a shelf. He put a goblet in front of the mage, filled it up, and made him drink.

“Now what’s this about Hawke missing?” The idea made his heart hammer in his chest, but any sign of worry from him would only send the mage in hysterics. Varric didn’t needed that again, not when the sun barely peeked out over his windowsill.

“I woke up, and I didn’t see Hawke,” the mage said between gulps of water.

“Well, you can’t be too surprised by that. You know how she gets. Remember the time she woke us all up to kill a nest of dragonlings? My boots smelled like shit for weeks.”

Anders shook his head, wiping his mouth with the back of a shaking hand. “No, Varric, this is different. When I went downstairs, I asked Bohdan where she went. The dwarf didn’t even know she’d left! She always leaves a note. Or at least she tells Bohdan. She’s missing, Varric. Don’t look at me like I’m crazy! She’s not home, and the only other place she’d be is here.”

Varric took a seat in his chair, the one at the head of the table, and passed a hand through his haphazard hair. Hawke not leaving a note was strange, he had to admit. Not telling _him_ where she was running off to was even stranger. He remembered the days following Bethany’s recruitment to the Wardens; Hawke hadn’t spoken to anyone but to her mabari, Bear. And even that had been in whispers and shadows. Once a rowdy and fearless woman, she had been reduced to stone, and only time had brought her back to life.

“I’ll ask around downstairs if they’d seen her. If not, I’ll ask around town. She couldn’t have left without a trace. Not when everyone and their mother know who she is.”

“I’ll help,” Anders said, already standing from his seat.

Varric quickly reached out a hand and grabbed the mage’s elbow. “Oh no, Blondie, not you. You’re going home.”

“ _Home?_ ” he said, incredulous, shaking the dwarf’s hand off. “I’m not going to sit around while Hawke is somewhere out there! Maker knows what trouble she’s in!”

“Have you looked at yourself lately? From what I’ve seen, people don’t respond well to mad men with sticks on there back.” When Anders’ eyes fell into shadow, Varric sighed and tried again. “You need to stay there in case she goes back home.”

Anders’ mouth was a hard line. “Fine. If you hear anything, come to me.” Suddenly, all the rage and tension he held in his shoulders fell away; all that was left was a weary, frightened mage. “Please.”

Varric dressed himself, shoving arms and legs in pants and shoes and shirts as quickly as he could. The first place he checked was, of course, the Hanged Man. Corff said Hawke hadn’t bought a room.

“And why would she? She’s got your suite. Don’t think I don’t know about your little friends sharing your room sometimes. I except --”

“Yeah, put it on my tab, Corff.”

The patrons were even less helpful; he didn’t have the coin on him to pay for their information, if they had any information at all, that is. Men and women in Low Town frowned and shook their heads, saying they haven’t seen her at all. Fuck the people in High Town, as they wouldn’t so much as look at him. The only lead he had was from a kid in Dark Town. He paid a sovereign to hear her say she had seen a woman with hair on fire head out of the city. He flipped the coin in the air, and the kid caught it with a smile.

“The forest is too dangerous for my hunters to search for her, but while on their hunt, if they see her, she’ll be brought home, unharmed,” said Keeper Marethari. “You’ve helped Merrill, and because of that, so shall we help you.”

The agonizing trek up Sundermount was worth every sore muscle and blister just to hear those words. But Varric thought for a moment, adjusted Bianca on his shoulders, and said, “Thank you, Keeper. But tell your hunters that if they do happen to see her, don’t force her home. That... Uh, might make things worse. If it’s all the same to you, a message that she’s alive would be fine.”

Marethari nodded. “Understood.”

A gut feeling told him Hawke was up on Sundermount, somewhere amongst the trees where she had always said she felt most safe. Most at home. Each day Anders barged into the suite asking for information, and each day Varric had to shake his head and frown. Lying from omission was still a lie. A master of secrets knew that well, but if Varric revealed that Hawke may be somewhere on that mountain now, either Anders would get himself lost, or, if by some miracle he did find her, he’d urge her to come home and only push her deeper into the woods.

But there was no word from the Sabrae clan, not for three months. Maybe she wasn’t on Sundermount after all.

Sometimes when Varric walked through the markets of Low Town, he would catch a glimpse of orange hair or hear a laugh that sounded like music, but it had always ended with disappointment. The bows and arrows he passed reminded him of the way she smelled of bark or how she moved across the battle field, letting arrows fly in a blur. Never had she cared about accuracy, not like him. That’s what made them work so well together.

The sound of something hitting the roof brought Varric back to his suite. He blinked away visions of blue eyes and freckles then looked up. In this weather, it could have been anything. A small block of stone that crumpled from a building. A piece of furniture swept up from the wind. A bird looking for shelter.

Varric rubbed his forehead and carried on, scratching a quill across parchment filled with names and trade agreements. He signed the name of his third cousin twice removed for the fifth time, glanced at the stack of papers he had already looked over, and gave himself a reward of three gulps of wine. The red rippled black against the candlelight as another boom of thunder rolled by. He could swear another pair of eyes were looking up at him.

“Well would you look at that,” he said to himself with a brittle smile. “Someone’s drowning.”

A flash of lightening brightened the sky, turning night into day for a split second. He planted the goblet well away from him, along with the pitcher.

He was about to press his quill to paper again when, suddenly, someone stumbled out of his window with a grunt and fell face first on his rug. Two volumes of _The History of Thedas_ toppled down with them, sending his curtains snapping and twisting with the wind.

“Huh.”

Varric threw the quill down and brought himself to his feet. Looking around for Bianca, he finally spotted her across the room, leaning against the wall near his bed.

_Well... Shit._

Sighing, he approached the stranger, who laid spread-eagle in the middle of his room. Gloved fingers and booted toes peeked out from under a filthy green cloak and a hood hid their face. When a puddle of rain water started to spread out from under them, Varric’s lips curled. With the toe of his boot, Varric nudged the stranger’s foot. From somewhere beneath the hood, a muffled groan escaped.

“If you’re going to die, can it not be on my rug?”

It wasn’t that he didn’t expect the laughter, though that was certainly some of it; it was that he didn’t expect the laughter to sound like music.

In an instant, Varric was down on his knees, throwing the hood over Hawke’s head to find a grinning, freckled face. But Varric was far from laughing. His stomach plummeted when he saw the bruised bags under her eyes, how pale and shallow her skin looked, and how the shadows of her face seemed deeper like her skin stretched over nothing but bone.

Hawke must have sensed his horrified shock. The laughter stopped, and they were both left with the wind and thunder. She pushed herself up with help from the dwarf, leaning against him for support. Even from beneath his duster, he felt her shiver.

“Maker’s balls, Hawke,” he finally breathed, taking the edges of her cloak and wrapping her frail body up tightly. With one hand, he steadied her, and didn’t like that he could feel bones of her shoulder under his palm when she nodded. He got to his feet to pull the blankets off his bed. They were heavy and thick, and when he laid them on top of Hawke’s shoulders, they weighed her down like rock against a blade of grass. He kneeled next to her again, making sure she didn’t tip over.

“I know,” she said, leaning her forehead against his shoulder. “I know.”

There was no joke, no smirk or chuckle. Only what was left of Hawke when the walls of bravery and wit came tumbling down.

“I did the same thing when my father died,” she told him, her words going in and out of a whisper. “Before he died, actually. When he got sick, I just... left. Nothing bad ever happened in the forest. Not when I was in there. Nothing could touch me or hurt me. In the forest, my father was well, and I knew that once I left the woods, everything would start again. It would all just... come rushing back. He died when I was out there. I wasn’t even there to see him.” Eyes squeezed tight, she whispered, “I’m such a coward.”

Varric laughed despite himself. “Coward? Hawke --”

“Giselle,” she sobbed into his shoulder. “My name is Giselle.”

 

\--

 

The morning came before Varric was ready for it. The curtains above were still, which meant the storm and the wind with it had passed. Dust moses floated around the beam of sunlight that filtered through his window, and the sounds of morning lifted from downstairs. Somewhere outside a bird greeted the sun with a song. Varric rolled into his pillow. His back ached, his joints popped and snapped, but he hadn’t expected anything else when he decided to sleep on the floor. He had refused to let Hawke leave in her state and to have her sleep in anything but a bed.

Varric sat up and groaned. To his left, a lump of blankets moved ever so slightly to the rise and fall of Hawke’s breath. Clothes were piled in the corner, her boots laid haphazard on the floor, and he was one shirt and one pair of pants short. Last night, he had, had no choice. The cotton shirt she had worn beneath a leather jerkin stuck to her skin with mud, sweat, and rain, and her pants had, had more holes than fabric. Thank the Maker she was so short.

_Morning’s not going to go any faster_ , he thought with a yawn.

He stood up, dressed himself, and drug his feet downstairs. By now, Norah would have morning porridge in the cook fire. He could already smell the burnt oats and almonds. Exhausted, the dwarf hobbled his way across the tavern where he dumped a spoonful of black glop in one bowl for him and three spoonfuls in a second bowl for Hawke. When Varric reached his room, he stopped on the threshold, surprised to see Hawke seated at the table hunched over in a bundle of blankets. She turned her head and smiled sleepily.

“Mornin’,” she said, voice thick with sleep.

Varric crossed his room and planted the bowl of oats in front of her. “I’ve gotta hand it to you Hawke,” he said, lowering himself into a chair, “when someone spends three months missing and comes stumbling out of a friend’s window soaked to the bone, they usually sleep for a day or two. But not you.”

“A little rain won’t kill me.” From under her blankets, she stuck a hand out, picked up a spoon, and almost breathed it in as she stuck it in her mouth. “You would think they would have some game up in those mountains,” she said around spoonfuls of porridge. “I mean, before I lost my bow. Now _that’s_ a story. But at least a rabbit, yeah? The elves must have survived some how, but all I could find were quails. Quails, Varric! And Orlesians call them a delicacy. But they shit in gold privies so you can’t say much about their taste, can you?” She took another bite and swallowed.

Varric’s porridge was left untouched, growing hard and cold. He could not bring himself to take a bite, not when Hawke’s hands look too thin to hold a spoon. It irritated him, finding Hawke in such a state after months of stress and lose sleep, and yet here she was cracking jokes as though nothing at all had happened over the past several weeks. He thrummed his fingers against the arm of his chair and leaned back, all of the anxiety and panic draining out of him.

“Mountains? Sundermount, right? That’s where you’ve been?” _I knew it._

Hawke stopped in mid-chew and cocked an eyebrow. “Right. I thought you knew. The elves saw me. Didn’t seem too surprised to find me, so when they said a dwarf was looking for me, I figured you asked around for a few favors.” Hawke pointed her spoon at him. A piece of porridge plopped on the table with a splat. “You didn’t get a message?”

_Damnit Norah._ “We might have to thank our lovely waitress for that.”

“Ahhh, Norah. Can’t trust her with a drink order, can’t trust her with an important message about where your missing friend’s been hiding for three months.”

Varric frowned. “Hawke.”

“Yeah, I know,” she sighed, letting her spoon fall into her empty bowl. With both of them falling silent, the only sound accompanying them were song birds, morning yawns, and the start of breakfast downstairs. It was strange to find Hawke with her mouth in a thin line. For as long as the dwarf had known her, she was either smiling or laughing, and that was always in between her talking.

Varric cleared his throat. “So your name’s Giselle?”

Hawke’s eyebrows rose impossibly high, her eyes growing to the size of eggs. “Who told you that?”

“... You did.”

“What? No I didn’t... Did I?”

“You told me last night, though... Shit, I don’t think you were all there. Andraste’s ass, what happened to you up there? Giselle?”

“Hawke! Hawke! My name is Hawke!” she yelled, slamming her fist against the table. She then looked at her shaking hand, ran it through her hair, and sighed. “Sorry... Just, please don’t call me that.”

Even if she didn’t want to talk about it, Varric waited for an explanation nonetheless. After the shit she put him through, he thought he deserved at least that. Besides, he knew she couldn’t stand the silence, so he let it press down on the both of them.

“I started calling myself that after my father died,” she caved with an eye-roll. “It was the least I could do after...”

“After you fled into the woods when he got sick?”

“Shit, Varric, how much did I tell you last night?”

“That was about it before you passed out. Can’t say I know much about emotional stability, but Hawke, look, people do and say crazy shit when they’ve lost someone.”

Hawke shook her head. “It’s not that. This city has picked off my family one by one. First, Carver, then Bethany, and yes, I know, she’s with the Wardens, but that’s the same as a death sentence. And now my mother... And I know, I _know_ , where ever she is, she’s blaming me for this.”

“Maker or no Maker, there’s no way of knowing that.”

“Come on, Varric,” she said, giving him a look. “What did she do after Carver died? You heard her at Gamlen’s. It was _my_ fault. _I_ should have protected him. Like I should have protected Bethany... like I should have protected my mother.”

Leaning forward, Varric crossed his arms on the table and said, “Ah, so now we’ve come to the part where I say this isn’t about Leandra blaming you, this is about you blaming yourself.”

“And this is the part where I walk out on the dwarf who’s trying to be funny.”

“Do you see me laughing?”

Hawke eyed him for a moment before pursing her lips and looking away. “No.”

Curiosity bubbled inside him like a scream, and it was all he could do to keep one question to himself. But Varric was never good at keeping his mouth shut. “Were you ever planning to come back?”

Hawke picked at the dried oatmeal with a dirty fingernail, digging until she scratched the table. Silence was her answer.

“Damnit Hawke,” the dwarf hissed.

She paused for a moment, until:

“‘This city is a curse, built upon the bones of slaves, and anyone who dwells in it will perish,’” she whispered, her eyes glazing over. Varric could tell she was no longer in the Hanged Man beneath layers of blankets, but someplace else entirely. “I snuck out through the family vault and reached the sewers by early morning. I was planning to stay down there for a week or two. I explored deeper into those tunnels than I think anyone has for a while, and one night, I came across a pile of bones. The skull -- it still had bits of flesh on it, with three white strands of hair. It had been such long hair. I’m sure it must have reached the back of their knees when they were alive. And what they wore -- old, and not because of the dust and dirt. People don’t wear those sorts of clothes anymore.

“Something shiny caught my eye. So of course, I touched it. I reached my hand out towards an amulet clutched in their hand. The sound their fingers made when I pried them open... I’ve taken things from dead bodies before, but never have I heard the crack of their bones echo against the stone around me. It was unsettling. Everything about that place felt wrong.

“I held the amulet up, saw that there was a latch, and opened it. Dust spilled out first, then came the scent of old books. You know, musty and earthy. Then a piece of parchment dropped to the floor. So, of course, I picked it up. It was so old, the edges dissolved into dust. When I peeled it open, I had to be careful. Slow. Because I had to know what was written on the other side. I had to know what was so important that whoever lay at my feet died protecting it.

“The words were so small. The ink had almost faded into the paper, but being kept in that amulet must have preserved some of it. I read the words over and over and over again.

“‘This city is a curse, built upon the bones of slaves, and anyone who dwells in it will perish.’

“I looked down at the bones, and for the first time noticed how slim the skull was.” Hawke ran a finger down the bridge of her nose. “The nose... It was so long.” She then slowly traced the outline of her eyes, still in a daze. “Their eyes must have been massive. Then it hit me. Those clothes looked so foreign because no one has worn them in centuries.

“Not since the elven slave uprising.”

Goosebumps pimpled Varric’s skin, sending the hairs all along his arms to stand on end. If there was one thing Hawke was good at, it was telling a story, but this was not like most of the tales she made the rest of the tavern relive with her. No, those were about giant spider innards and the time she had knocked out eight of a raider’s front teeth. The story she had just told was eloquent, chilling.

And now, thinking back to Leandra’s head sewn on the body of another woman, Varric Tethras could never be sure just how far magic can be taken.

“I thought this city was cursed, Varric,” Hawke continued, focusing on him now. Her eyes were bright and hard; with her chaotic orange hair and gaunt cheeks, she looked half-mad. “This damn city and everyone in it. I lived in that forest believing some ancient elven magic cursed the place. Maker, maybe they did. Who knows, yeah? But I had no intention of coming back after that. I blamed this place; I blamed myself. Hell, I even blamed the guard. But you know who I didn’t blame? That fucking bastard. The man who killed my mother.

“Why?” she laughed bitterly. “Why wasn’t he the first person I was angry with? And why did it take some dried bones and three months of shitting in a hole to figure out that the person I should have blamed all along was the murderer himself?”

“Spend a few more months in the trees, and I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” said Varric.

When Hawke laughed again, it sounded more like her song and less like a broken chord. “Nah. Do you know how hard it is to get tree sap off your hands?” Downstairs, someone shouted a curse, and the din of plates crashing and cups spilling filled the air. Both Hawke and the dwarf didn’t seem bothered. It was the music of the Hanged Man.

“So if you planned on never coming back, what made you decide to come tumbling through my window last night?” he asked, blocking out the fight downstairs.

Shocked, Hawke turned towards him, and said, as though he should have known the answer all along, “Isn’t it obvious? It was you.”

_Me?_ he thought. _Oh, right. The elves._

Varric had a hard time swallowing around the guilt in his throat. Anders could have had easily climbed Sundermount with him to ask the Sabrae clan for help, and Varric could have had just as easily told the mage where Hawke might be. But too much had been weighing on _maybes_ , and he hadn’t needed another friend of his missing in the woods if Blondie decided to take matters into his own hands. If Hawke asked why Anders hadn’t looked for her, or if the mage accused the dwarf of keeping secrets, he would have to deal with the matter when it came. And he hoped it never did.

“When I heard the elves say that a dwarf was looking for me, everything began to focus. You know when you’re in battle, and you’re taking one, two, three men down, and suddenly the fight is over and you look around to find the world bigger than it was a few seconds ago? I was so focused on my mother’s death and ancient elven curses that I forgot I had friends who... who... well, hell, _you know._ ”

“Ah, yeah, I know.” Varric found himself smiling at the way her ears turned a brilliant scarlet red. “Might want to stay away from Aveline for a few days, though. If you don’t, I’m putting my bets on the guard.”

“Oh, so I guess now that you’re teasing me, you’re not angry anymore?” There was a hint of insecurity behind her question, but Hawke covered it well with humor. Another bang rang downstairs.

“It’s not me you should be worried about. It’s --”

Suddenly, the door to the suite crashed open, and in rushed Anders with Corff crashing into the mage’s back, nearly toppling over each other’s feet.

“I’m a friend of Varric’s!” shouted Anders as he detangled himself from the bartender.

“I bloody well know that!” Corff yelled back for what sounded like the third time that day. He tugged at his shirt, snapping the dust out of the fabric. “But you can’t come barging in here every damn day like you do! You’re scaring away my costumers!”

“Oh, get off it. Plenty of your regulars come shoving in and wrecking the place. Remember when Isabela broke the sign outside? This is about me being a mage!”

The dish towel Corff held twisted between his hands. Any more and his veins would pop. “I fill your cup as much as any other. I could have you dragged away to the Gallows but I keep my mouth shut. I’ve enough of you mages and templars.” Furious, Corff slung the towel over his shoulder, turned on his heel, and stomped downstairs.

“I still can’t believe he serves those tem--”

“Anders?” Hawke had stood up, let the blankets slip from her shoulders and drop in a pile on the floor. Varric’s shirt barely covered her thighs, and his pants came up to her calves. With all the weight she had lost, they hung off her body like a tarp.

Blondie turned around, and from where Varric sat at the head of the table, the mage looked as though he believed nothing in this room was real. For a moment, the dwarf wondered if that was what the Fade felt like. “Hawke?”

She nodded, lips trembling. “In the flesh... Or what’s left of it.”

“Maker’s blessing.” Arms outstretched, Anders took two long strides across the room and wrapped Hawke in a fierce hug. He bent down and tucked his face in the crook of her neck, squeezing his eyes shut until tears spilled out of the corners. “Maker’s blessing,” he said again. “He does answer a mage’s prayer.”

With a goodbye, Anders and Hawke left with her boots, cloak, and wet clothes. They were a sight, Varric had to admit, with her hair sticking out in the back, dark circles under her eyes, and hollow cheeks, and him with wild blonde locks sticking out of his ponytail, sunken eyes, and skeletal hands. Blondie had her by the waist as they disappeared through the market’s crowd, almost like he was afraid she would flee again. But Varric knew what happened up on that mountain, and why she would never run away again. It all had to do with three words.

_It was you._


End file.
